Wasted Youth
by tarnished glitter
Summary: *AU* A twist on how Roger got AIDS. Slash, but not your usual couple. UPDATED 2/21
1. Prolouge

A/N:  Plotless though it may seem, I _am_ going somewhere with this.

Soft lips envelope my own, long arms find their way around my waist as I press my body a little further against the figure cuddled in my arms.

The kiss deepens, a tongue presses insistently against my lips, begging for the entry that I more than willingly grant. Strong, smooth hands run their way up from my back to behind my head, where delicate fingers get lost in my silky tendrils of bleached blonde hair.

It is only when I feel myself being pushed down onto the sofa, being crushed into fabric and springs below me, that I realize who the weight on top of me belongs to. 

"Shit," I whisper, withdrawing my tongue and pushing the heavy weight off of me. "Shit."

I stare at the dark-haired man looking back at me, his face reflecting the fear, shock, and confusion on my own. My head is spinning and I have the urge to vomit, both from the drugs still circulating through my system, and from the fact that I just kissed another man…passionately. Shit.

This isn't some girl I picked up in a club, this isn't Laura, my long-term girlfriend of six months. This is… Who _is_ this?

As if on cue, the man coughs nervously and says, "Uh, hey. I'm Steve."

"Roger," I reply, a little dazed out. Did this really happen or is it just another drug-induced hallucination? I reach out to touch "Steve's" chest and run my had over the dips and muscles underneath his white tee-shirt, already moist with sweat after being in a crowded room, packed wall to wall with people dancing and having sex on various pieces of furniture. No, this really did happen.

I'm high. Completely wasted, I wasn't thinking straight. That's the only reason it happened.

Steve is still gaping at me, his eyes wide with terror, shock, and…passion? I glance down and it is then that I notice that my fingers are still tracing light patterns across the smooth texture of his shirt, still delicately stroking his chest, and I draw back my hand quickly.

The room is beginning to spin in front of me, the patterns on the peeling wallpaper are jumping out at me, almost as if they were 3-D. Just how high _am_ I?

I start to go over the number of drinks in my head, and the number of drugs I took, but I only get to three shots and two joints before being pushed down on the battered sofa again.

'Holy shit,' I think to myself as Steve looms over me, passion radiating from those intense, dark eyes of his. He bends down and presses his lips softly, tentatively -- and then a little more rough as his desire mounts – against my own.

His lips are so soft and they taste so good; it isn't long before I give in to the pleasure and press my mouth against his. 'Hey, I'm high,' I rationalize in my head. This doesn't mean anything, it's just the drugs. So why _not_ give in? I can always deny it later, and chances are I won't even remember come morning.

I moan softly as Steve runs his hand down my back and am extremely pissed off when someone pulls him off of me a second later.

A small girl stands in front of us, eyes bloodshot, and covered in sweat as she holds out some dollar bills in her trembling palm.

"Got any smack?" she asks quietly, with a nervous little tremor in her voice.

Steve sighs and shoves a hand in the pocket of his beige overcoat, producing a tiny ziplock bag.

"I'm cool," he snarls as he grabs the money, simultaneously slipping the small, plastic bag containing white powder, into her hand.

"Thanks," she murmurs as she runs away, her long dark hair bouncing around her shoulders.

I look at Steve questioningly and raise an eyebrow, as if to ask what just happened, as he pulls an identical bag from the same pocket.

"You interested?"

I'm about to reply, about to tell him that fuck yes, I'm interested, but before I can another girl with beautiful emerald green eyes and flowing red hair approaches us.

"Hey," she murmurs seductively into Steve's ear as she wraps her lithe arms around his muscular chest and pecks tiny kisses across his face. "Come with me," she whispers, motioning to a corner of the crowded room where a bunch of people have formed a circle.

Steve nods and the girl walks away. "Coming?" he asks, taking my hand in his own, pulling me over to the group.

And before I know what is happening I am standing along with the rest of the junkies, watching as the needle gets passed down the line. April, the redhead girl from before, holds the needle out to me, her painted red lips quirked into a smile and an eyebrow raised flirtatiously.

"Want it?" After a long moment of silence she sighs, tossing her long hair over a shoulder as she adds, "Don't worry, it's clean."

I pause for a second, never having tried heroin before, before grabbing the syringe hungrily. "Most definitely."

A/N:  Sorry it's so short. This is just the prologue, but the next chapter will be longer.


	2. Do I Know A Steve?

Colors whirl around me, blur together into one giant mass of gray. My head spins and I grasp for the wall blindly as I stumble down the hall, searching in the darkness for my apartment.

"Jesus Roger, not again," I hear a voice call out from the distance. But the voice is fuzzy, along with everything else, and I can't place who it belongs to. But, figuring that I no longer need to stumble around in the dark now that I've been found, I let myself collapse weakly on the thinly carpeted floor beneath me.

I hear the loud crash of my body as I fall and I sit as still as I can, trying to stop the swaying of the room. Funny. You'd think a fall like that would hurt me, but I hadn't felt a thing. I giggle, finding humor in the fact that I can no longer feel my arms or legs.

Suddenly someone grabs me under the arms and I can feel myself being half carried, half dragged down a hallway of darkness into a small room, which I later realize is my apartment. Though they are pretty much the same thing.

I feel something soft under me and a warm body next to my own, and I laugh at the realization that the reason for the darkness is because of my closed eyelids.

I open my eyes and am hit with the sensation of a million bright, vibrant colors, all of them blurry and melded together. It's like staring right at the sun. I gasp and then close my eyes quickly, trying to block out some of the incredible brightness.

My head is pounding and sweat is streaming down my forehead in rivers, drenching my trembling body. But when I open my eyes again I realize that it isn't sweat at all, but the jets of water from the shower Mark put me under.

I shiver a little in my damp clothes and lean against a side of the porcelain bathtub. The water feels good, it's drowning out some of the pounding in my head and steadying my incredibly heightened senses; it's pulling me out of my heroin-induced state.

I open my eyes again, feeling marginally better, to find Mark staring down at me in mixed concern and anger. More than anger really, he looks like he's about ready to strangle me.

"Roger, you swore you would stop!"

My only response is the quick gulp of air I take before shoving Mark out of the way and vomiting violently into the toilet in front of me.

"Jesus Christ," I hear my friend mutter over my loud, desperate gagging. When my stomach finally stops its heaving I pant heavily, trying to regulate my breathing, and slide down against the cool tile of the bathroom floor.

Oh God, does it feel nice against my sweaty, damp body. I don't care that it's the dirty bathroom floor of my grungy apartment, I'm not moving from this spot all night. I don't think I _can_ move from this spot, even if I wanted to, which I don't. I'm perfectly fine lying here covered in my own sweat and vomit until I'm able to move my limbs again and carry myself to my room.

Mark POV:

I walk back into the bathroom, carrying a tall glass of water, only to find Roger passed out on the floor.

I sigh heavily and grab a washcloth from the sink and dampen it before bringing it to Roger's face, wiping the sides of his mouth and his sweat-soaked forehead.

As I grab Roger by the chest and strain to carry his heavy body into his bedroom, I wonder vaguely what it was this time. Alcohol, pot, X, speed… With Roger, the possibilities are endless.

Night after night he comes home either completely stoned or so wasted that he can't even stand up on his own. I guess I should be used to it by now and accept that this is just the way Roger is. And that he isn't going to stop or change. If he's so determined to kill himself than I should just let him.

Why should I have to take care of him, go searching for him at all hours of the night, get no sleep of my own just to make sure he's all right and doesn't die from an overdose or alcohol poisoning?

_Because you love him_, a voice calls out from nowhere.

I sigh and bite my lip as I struggle to lift the man twice my size onto his bed. Once the task is done I look down at Roger – my beautiful, wonderful, perfect, impossible Roger – and close my eyes, trying to stop the feelings coursing through my body.

When I finally get my emotions under control I open my eyes again and notice that Roger is curled around the worn blanket he's had ever since he was a child, and is snoring peacefully. Maybe he's not passed out after all.

"You love him," I repeat softly, echoing the words resounding through my mind.

_It's true_, I think to myself as I lean down and hesitantly brush my lips against his. I'm in love with my best friend and roommate who is incapable of loving anything or anyone except the drugs he pours into his body… the drugs that control his life.

Roger POV:

I wake up the next morning feeling the worst I ever have in my entire life. I'm twisted around drenched bed sheets, the entire length of my body is covered in sweat, and I can't so much as move a limb without intense nausea washing through my stomach, making me want to spend the rest of my life bent over a toilet bowl… Except I can't move. The pain in my arms and legs is almost paralyzing, making my want to scream out in pain and anguish.

The events of the previous night are fuzzy, at best. I remember smoking those joints along with Adam and the band, I remember X. I remember Laura leaving early, claiming she felt sick, I remember April passing me the needle and I remember her going through the motions, showing me how to do it myself. The prick of the needle and the sudden rush of emotions and sensations were incredible and still vivid in my mind, despite how wasted I already was at the time.

But after that my mind goes blank. I think I remember walking home from the party at about 1:00 a.m. and how strange I thought it was to be seeing rainbows at that hour of the night.

The colors were so intense that they were almost blinding. They made me nauseous. I think I remember throwing up in an alley, and I remember sweat pouring over me like rain… Wait, maybe that was the shower. Was there a shower?

I remember the blue and red and yellow, green, and orange flashing in front my eyes before exploding, leaving me in total and complete darkness. I have never had such a scary experience before in my life. It was like being trapped in a giant black hole with no way out – no windows or doors…just the black – stumbling around, trying to find the colors again.

Tentatively I open my eyes and am relieved to see that the hues have returned to their normal shade. My head is still spinning and I still feel a little bit of a buzz, but for the most part I think the heroin has worn off.

That is, until I sit up in bed and a searing pain shoots through my upper body and legs. I clench my teeth to keep from screaming, and grip my damp blanket so tightly that my knuckles turn almost as white as the sheets on my bed. I am never doing heroin again.

I think I hear a light tapping on my door as I lie in bed, feeling like I'm about to die. But maybe I'm just hearing things again.

But no, I'm not hearing things because a second later Mark appears in my doorway, looking absolutely livid.

"I'm sorry," I blurt out before he has the chance to say anything. I'm really not in the mood for another one of his lectures about the evils of drugs and alcohol. Sometimes he reminds me of my mother.

But Mark doesn't say anything this time. He just stares at me, unflinchingly, and I can almost read his eyes as if they're saying, "No more lectures. I've had it, that's it. Go take your drugs and booze somewhere else, because I don't want you here anymore."

But if that's what he's thinking, he keeps it to himself. Instead he just stands there in that one spot, glaring me down, until I finally look away from his intense gaze and he sighs.

"Roger, who is this Steve guy who keeps calling?"

"Steve?" I mumble, making a weak attempt to sit up in bed. Do I know a Steve?

"Yeah. He must have called about five times already. Who is he?"

I shrug and give up on the task of trying to sit up. I relax my muscles and let myself collapse on the bed again, not even noticing the pain as the hard mattress collides with the heavy weight of my body… I'm too busy focusing on all the other pain in every single part of my body.

When I open my clenched eyelids I notice that Mark is standing right above me, a concerned look in his deep azure eyes.

"What the hell did you do last night, Rog?" he asks, wrapping my blanket a little tighter around me.

"Um… I just went out with the band. I guess I had a little too much to drink."

I can see the suspicion dancing in Mark's eyes as he opens his mouth to respond, but thankfully, he is cut off by the shrill ringing of the phone.

Giving me one last, hard look, Mark walks out of the room and a second later reappears, tossing the phone at me.

"It's Steve again."

I take the phone hesitantly and bring it to my ear, unsure of who it is exactly that I'm talking to.

"Hello?"

"Rog?" a raspy voice whispers in almost a seductive purr.

I wince at the nickname "Rog." No one calls me Rog, NO one. Well, with Mark being the one exception. So why the hell does this guy think he can get away with it when the rest of the world would be practically beaten to death?"

"_Roger_," I growl, correcting him.

The voice on the other line laughs, a low sound…nearly a rumble.

"You don't remember me do you?"

"Um…"

"Listen, why don't you come over to my place. I can…help you remember."

"Uh… Your place? And where exactly is that?" I ask, a little impatiently.

He laughs again. "Do you remember the party last night?"

I nod, but then realize that he can't see me. "Yeah."

"I'm one apartment up."

"Okaaay," I reply, thinking back to last night, trying to remember a Steve and why he would be calling me. But my mind is blank. I spent most of it in a haze, and no matter how hard I try, I cannot place a man named Steve in there anywhere.

So I hang up the phone, fully intending to ditch the guy. I mean, if he was someone important I would remember him, right? But in the end my curiosity gets the better of me so after the heroin has worn off completely and I'm feeling a little better I get out of bed and head down to the sight of last night's party.

Pulling at a loose thread on my jacket, I hesitantly bring a shaking hand up to the door and knock.

"Hey there, Cutiepie." A low voice growls as a man, who I assume must be Steve, opens the door.

Cutiepie? I raise an eyebrow at the stranger and he merely chuckles as he snakes an arm around my waist. As I stand there gaping at him I feel the hand drift down lower and it is then that the night's previous events come back to me. Oh. Shit…


	3. Strangers In The Night

Mark POV:

Hearing a loud crash, I sit up in bed quickly and slip my glasses on as I glance at the glowing neon digits of the clock next to me. 3:00 a.m.

Cautiously, I rise from my bed and peak my head out of my bedroom – hoping that it's Roger coming home from another late night of partying – instead of one of the burglars or crazed murderers that are situated in this part of the neighborhood.

It's dark though so I can't really make out anything other than the silhouette of a figure sprawled out on the couch and another figure under it, both of them moaning and thrashing about.

I wince as another crash resounds throughout the loft and I realize that it was from the lamp now laying in a thousand broken pieces on the floor.

I sigh. Knowing Roger, it's probably another tramp he picked up in another trashy club. Same thing, different night. Usually I don't interfere with these one-night stands, but in this case, I feel the need to. If I want to keep the furniture in one piece, that is.

"Roger?" I call out quietly.

A loud groan of frustration, two male voices speaking in hushed tones, and an angry, slurred "What the fuck?"

I freeze. The deep baritone was not that of my best friend. Creeping further into the living room I flip on the light switch only to find Roger, half naked, on top of another man – also lacking proper dressing.

Roger squints at the sudden change in lighting and raises a hand over his eyes in an attempt to block some of the vibrant light.

"Mark, shut the fucking light off," he hisses, the man underneath him groaning in frustration as Roger sits up and walks over to me.

"Roger?" I state, my eyes wide. "Who is that?"

"No one. G'back to bed, Mark."

My lips curve downwards into a frown as I take in Roger's appearance and demeanor – dirty, disheveled hair, bloodshot eyes, slurred speech, and stinking of booze. Looking away, I let my gaze travel to his companion still lying on the couch, casually popping a few pills as he waits for Roger to return.

"Roger, who the hell is that?" I hiss, grabbing hold of his arm and pulling him into my bedroom with me.

"Whooaa, Mark," Roger laughs, throwing his head back as he giggles. "I've already gotta date tonight…."

I sigh and glare at Roger angrily. "What are you on?"

"Nothin'," he replies casually, swallowing hard.

"Loverboy!" a deep, gravelly voice calls out from the living room.

Roger grins at me with that hallow expression on his face – the expression that I've come to recognize as his "wasted state" – and retreats from my room without so much as a second glance.

"No," I state, going after him and dragging him back to my room by the arm. 

This is too much. Night after night he comes home at ungodly hours of the morning so wasted he can't even see straight. The next day is spent with him in the bathroom, me hovering over his hunched figure as he throws up the drugs, booze, and whatever other shit he forced into his system the night before. It's always the same, each day identical to the previous. Well, I'm not going to let the process start all over again. This time, I'm not leaving without answers.

"Roger, who is that man?"

"What man?" he asks innocently, his frighteningly hollow eyes piercing through my own. The depth of emptiness amazes me. I study him for a good minute or so, trying to decide how to take his statement.

"The man in the living room," I finally say. "On the couch. You know, the one you were undressing?"

And then I see something flicker to life in Roger's eyes. What it is, I can't quite tell. Maybe fear?

"Just a friend." Roger turns away from me and tries once again to retreat to the safety of the living room. But I stand up and block his path before he gets out the door.

"No, Roger, he's not just a friend… You don't make out with friends, you don't undress friends. You don't sleep with friends."

Roger looks at me long and hard before finally giving me one last icy glance and turning on his heel.

"At least I'm getting some," he states before slamming the door shut behind him, the sound reverberating throughout the entire apartment.

I can't sleep for the rest of the night. Whether it's because of the not-so-muffled noises coming from the living room, or the screaming in my own head, I'm not sure. Finally, about three and a half hours later, I hear the front door to the loft slamming shut and I assume it's safe to head out of my room.

I look around the cluttered apartment for Roger but all I find is a yellow piece of paper torn from a notepad that reads: __

_Mark – _

_Went out for food. I'll be back in a few hours._

Well, his sentences make sense, and the handwriting is legible. I take this as a good sign. Maybe now that he's sober he'll explain what the hell last night was all about. 

In all the years I've known Roger, I've never seen him express interest in another man. Then again, Roger's whole lifestyle these past few months have come as a shock to me. I know that I should confront him about it. I should have a long time ago, but he's almost never sober anymore, and the sweet, gentle, kind Roger I've been friends with for the past eight years is _not_ the same guy who's been living in the loft lately. That Roger is mean, hostile, bitter, and vicious. I'm almost afraid to be around him, afraid of what he'd do to me.

I glance at the note once again, holding it in my palm before setting it down beside the phone again. He's not wasted this morning. For the first time in a long while, Roger is sober, and I'm going to use this situation to my advantage. It's time to confront him about this, and this time I'm not going to let anything get in the way.


	4. The Lady in Red

"So how long have you known Steve?"

"Two years. We've only been dating for about six months, though."

She must have seen the fear wash across my face because April instantly smiles and leans back, popping a pill in her mouth and washing it down with a large gulp of Jack Daniels.

"Relax. I know about you two," she says, ruffling my messy blonde hair, at the same time tucking a wisp of unruly red hair behind a multiply pierced ear. "And don't think you're the first he's cheated on me with."

"And you're fine with this?"

April shrugs. "I guess I'm just used to it by now.  I would mind more if I actually liked him as more than a friend."

I snatch the alcohol bottle from her and raise an eyebrow before taking a quick sip.

"And you don't?"

"No, not really. I mean, he's okay as a person and I wish he'd have a little more respect for me, but he's not the kind of guy I would want to be dating."

"Oh yeah? And what kind of guy would that be?" I ask, leaning in suggestively.

April does not miss my action and she responds by giving me a seductive smile and pressing her forehead up against mine, letting her long hair fall like a scarlet curtain around our faces. She doesn't respond with words, but her reaction is far better than any verbal response I could have asked for. She brushes her ruby lips to mine hungrily and I respond vehemently, deepening the kiss and pushing her down on the thick beige carpet of her apartment.

When we finally come up for air, April doesn't say anything. Instead, she pushes me off of her, brushes my hair out of my eyes, and resumes drinking from the whiskey flask in front of her.

Maybe it's the heat of the apartment. Maybe it's the drugs making my head spin, or the alcohol racing through my veins. Or maybe it's simply the atmosphere of April's flashy, high-class apartment. But whatever it is, all thoughts of Laura and Steve fly out of my mind, leaving only room for April.

"So," she interrupts my thoughts. "Do _you_ like dating Steve?"

"Sure. I guess so. I mean, he's fun, but he's not someone I'd ever consider getting into a serious relationship with."

April nods understandingly. "But you do… I mean, you like girls, right?"

_Time for a little game of seduction…_

"Depends on the girl…"

April smiles that bright smile I'm growing to love, and is about to respond but the ringing of the doorbell in the distance cuts her off.

I quietly groan in frustration as she gives me an apologetic look and bounces up to answer the door.

Before I even have a chance to process what's happening, Steve is standing in front of me, and April is by his side biting her lip nervously. And if there's one thing I can say about April, it's that she is never. ever. nervous.

Subconsciously, I raise a hand to my mouth to wipe off any remains of blood red lipstick before going over to Steve and wrapping my arms around him tightly, kissing him firmly on the lips to destroy any suspicion he may have after finding his two lovers alone together in an apartment. It doesn't take long for the kisses to deepen and before I know it, Steve is on top of me on the couch, pulling my tee shirt over my head, and April is shuffling out of the room, unnoticed.

If Steve acknowledges April's presence at all, he sure doesn't show it. He doesn't give any regard to her at all, and I quickly understand April's distaste for the man. 

In all the many times Steve and I have made love, I've never not enjoyed it. But as Steve lay on top of me that night, kissing me and slowly working his way down my body all I could think about was the beautiful, sexy woman with the long red hair in the other room. And how much I'd rather be with her. 

* * *

A/N:  Sorry this chapter's so short. It's just some background info, leading into some important stuff that will happen in the next chapter. But I promise, I'll try to make the next one longer! Don't forget to let me know what you think…reviews make my world go round.


	5. Bad Trip

Mark POV:

Food. He went out to get food. Sure.

I pace around the sparse living room, pausing only slightly to glance out the window, for the millionth time today, onto the empty alleyway below. Still no sign of Roger. It's been three weeks since I found him with... whoever that guy was… And he hasn't come home since. Without any note (except for the false "Went to get food. I'll be back in a few hours." note) or phone call, I have no way of knowing where he is or who he's with so I'm left to my imagination to supply the information that Roger neglected to tell me, and the images running through my mind at this particular moment are not pretty. I can only imagine what could've happened to him. There are the usual thoughts of an overdose and alcohol poisoning running through my mind, but I try to push away the paranoid and overdramatic thinking in favor of the more logical (but not any better) – What if he left? For good? What if Roger's never planning on coming back?

I haven't gotten any sleep since "that night". And it's not just because I'm worried about Roger and what may have become of him. No, the thing that's keeping me awake lately is my _lack_ of worrying. Things have changed between us. We're not best friends anymore… we're hardly even friends. And I'm getting pretty damn sick and tired of cleaning up his messes, of constantly saving him and taking care of him. I have a life too! But it seems lately that my only life consists of making sure Roger doesn't dig himself in a hole too deep to get out of.

The past few weeks have, in a way, been such a relief to me – I don't have to tiptoe around my own home in fear that he may be drunk (he has a violent temper when he's wasted), no more waiting up all night to take care of him and shower him and tuck him into bed when he comes home stoned and not able to stand up on his own, I can have my own life. But I'm angry, still, because even in his absence Roger takes up all my time and thoughts. 

When will it ever end??

I sigh and perch on the armchair that I've turned to face the dusty window, so that I can see the streets, and Roger, more clearly if he ever decides he wants to come back to his old life.

Of course, I went out searching for him the second I realized that he wasn't planning on coming right home. I checked the bars, clubs… anywhere I'd imagine Roger would go. But he never told me in the past where he spent all those nights out of the loft. He never tells me anything anymore, and so I had no idea even where to begin searching.

Suddenly something in the alley below the window catches my eye and I sit upright quickly, knocking the chair over in the process, and my eyes grow wide when I see just what this something is.

It's Roger. With torn and blood stained clothing, his body bruised almost beyond recognition.

Roger POV:

"Come on, Baby, he'll never have to know…"

"We can't. I can't. I'm sorry," I murmur, trying to pull away from April's firm but soft grasp on me and from the seductive charm that has me under its spell.

"He cheats on you, you know." Another flirtatious smile. A gentle stroke on my forearm.

Closing my eyes, I nod slightly and try to think thoughts of Steve. Steve and no one else. No April in there anywhere. Yes, I've kissed her before, and yes, I've had… thoughts about her before. But this is different because it isn't just lust, it isn't just the physical attraction anymore. This is something real, something that if I decided to pursue would make me an awful person, a cheater... like my father. Like Steve.

"I know. But I'm better than him… I'm not a cheater."

This causes a slight pause in her careful game of seduction. But like a snake charmer, she catches herself quickly and looks into my gaze with those emerald green eyes that lure me in like a moth to the fire.

"You wouldn't be a cheater exactly, considering he cheats on you with every other woman he sees. And me. Anyway, who ever said the relationship was exclusive?"

This last statement, I have to admit, catches me a little off guard and I pause for a second to consider her logic.

"Well, no, we never decided we were exclusive, but…"

Before I even get a chance to finish my sentence April is on top of me, her soft, curvy body resting on top of my own in lust; her delicate, soft lips covering my own rough ones. The sensation is incredible… I've never felt this with anyone before. Certainly not with Steve – he's always rough. Never gentle, never slow, never caring. Laura, the girl I was with before I met Steve, was _all_ gentle, always slow, _too_ caring. There was no passion at all. But April… April is a heady combination of both, and as she deepens the kiss all thoughts of Steve and Laura and Mark drift from my mind as though they'd never existed in the first place.

After what seems like lifetimes, a small portion of my mind finally gets through to me and Steve once again becomes the predominant issue in my life, and in this new – relationship? fling? affair? – with April. I pull away quickly, startling both myself and her. Panting, I try to drown out the screaming in my mind… "_Cheater, cheater, cheater!_"

"Rog?"

A delicate, pale hand rests gently on top of my own and, without even thinking about it, I turn my palm over and run my rough, calloused fingertips against the smooth skin of hers, twining our fingers together.

"I'm sorry… I just-"

"I understand. It's okay."

But from the expression on her face – the lips pulled slightly down on each side of her face, the eyes that only a few minutes ago had burned with life and passion and desire now looked like two empty voids – I could tell that it wasn't. She begins to stand up, to turn away from me, but I grab her around the waist, sending her toppling down nearly on top of me. Almost against her will, she giggles.

"What was that for?"

My only response is a firm kiss on the lips. Cheater or no cheater, I can't stand to see that look on April's face – especially knowing that I'm the cause behind it. The kiss instantly deepens and I run my hands through thick tendrils of tangled red hair, she stroking the dirty mop of cheap dye my hair has become. When we finally break apart she looks up at me, still sitting on my lap, with an expression I don't think I've ever seen on her before. Fear? Worry?

"So what happens now?"

Good question. What _does_ happen now? I still love Steve…don't I? I quickly shake my head clear. Stupid, stupid question. Of course I do! But I love April too.

"You okay there, Rog?" She quirks a tiny smile at me and I grin.

"Yeah. Must've zoned out for a second."

Suddenly the sound of boots stamping up the concrete steps of the building resound throughout April's apartment and we break apart quickly, she scampering into the kitchen to pour herself a drink, I jumping up quickly to sit casually on April's overstuffed couch, my feet kicked up on the coffee table.

Not a second later, the door opens slowly and in walks Steve, two tiny Ziploc bags in hand. Lately he's taken to bringing us "presents". Mostly heroin, but sometimes he'll throw in some X or Speed, too. Yes, dating a dealer is a blessing.

He tosses me the bag and immediately walks over to April where he engulfs her in a hug and starts pecking kisses across her face and neck. I roll my eyes at the sight, for some reason feeling more anger than jealousy – anger perhaps at the way he treats her? of the way he treats me? – and try to ignore it while I begin the all too familiar search for a vein. But I just can't tear me eyes away from the image of Steve and April, as he backs her up against the wall, obviously against her will. Sometimes I wonder how he can do this sort of thing right in front of me. Me: his boyfriend. And the same goes for April. I've seen April when Steve and I are together, and the girl is obviously pained to see us like that. Whether she's jealous of Steve or of me is anyone's guess, but the point is, you don't go around kissing (and often times more) people right in front of your date.

Finally, I manage to look away from them and I focus my attention once again on finding a vein. Lately, this has become harder and harder. There are numerous collapsed veins in both of my arms… sometimes I have to resort to my legs or the bottom of my feet to inject the drug into my body. I don't consider myself a junkie, but sometimes I do think I should cut down a little bit. A lot of times, at first, I only do it because either Steve or April is doing it and I don't want to be left out, but lately I've noticed that if I go without it for too long I begin to feel a bit sick. Nothing too bad, though. Nothing like I'm sure withdrawal must be like. April's been a junkie before but in recent years has gotten clean, and she told me all about it: How to use safely without becoming a junkie, how to avoid withdrawal sickness, how to make even the smallest stash last for a long time, how to shoot up so it hits you in just the right way.

I glance down at my arms again and finally spot a clear area just below my elbow. April's arms are worse than mine. I worry about her more than I do myself because of her past, and I've tried to get her to cut back a little but she just gets so sick… A lot of times I do think that she's a junkie, and that's what keeps me at ease about myself. April is, and always has been, much worse than I will ever be.

The noises from behind me are getting louder and more fervent so I gather my things (a needle, lighter, a charred spoon, and my "gift" from Steve) and head off into April's room, slamming the door shut behind me. I want to hit him sometimes. I want to hurt _her_ sometimes… Why do they have to do stuff like that in front of me, when they both know full well that I like them both?

I can feel the heroin begin to take over my body – my head is spinning and my limbs are becoming numb, so I lie down on April's queen-sized bed, trying to shut off the images and thoughts racing through my drug-hazed mind.

In all the time that I've been staying with her, I've never been in April's room. As much as I want to get up and look around, learn more about this mysterious redheaded girl, I can't because I seem to be trapped on the bed by some force…some sort of gravitational pull.

Suddenly the realization that this must be a bad batch invades my mind and I groan, wishing that Mark were here for the first time since I've left him. It's not that I wanted to leave… I just couldn't stand the thought of facing him after he caught me with Steve that night. I'm not gay, contrary to what my friends and Steve think. I like girls… Steve is really the only guy I've ever wanted to be with. And most of the times I've really wanted him I've been in a drug-induced fog. I would have slept with _Mark_, had I been given the chance.

The lights exploding before my eyes fascinate me, and I don't even realize when April walks into the room, hair tousled and clothing ruffled.

"Rog?" she whispers, climbing into bed with me.

When I don't answer (still mesmerized by the starbursts and rainbows, then the blackness) she pokes my side and says my name a little stronger.

"Roger. What's wrong?"

"Mmm…"

Suddenly her voice changes, the concern etched across her face quickly dissipating to understanding. "You're on a bad trip aren't you?"

When only silence greets her, April scoops me up (the best she can, considering I'm almost twice her size and practically dead weight in her arms) and drags me into the bathroom with her, leaning me against the toilet, urging me to throw up.

"Come on… just puke, you'll feel better. You have to get it out of you, just throw up!"

After about ten minutes she finally sighs and, scowling, says, "Ooh Roger, you're going to pay for this…" and sticks her fingers down my throat.

Fifteen minutes pass, a half hour, forty-five minutes, and I'm still in the bathroom, sweating, and leaning against April for support. She's pressing a moist towel to my forehead and stroking my cheek lovingly. Finally my head begins to clear. The pounding stops, the lights stop exploding and imploding, the waves stop crashing and bending and breaking, and twisting. 

I look at April with a clear head and ask, in awe, "Did you really just make me puke?"

She shrugs helplessly, turning her palms outward and up, and gives a hint of her radiant, vibrant smile.

"Well, you would have died!"

I chuckle. "I think that's being a bit overdramatic, don't you?"

This time when I look up at April she isn't smiling, and she doesn't look amused.

"No, I've had friends who've died like that. It… I-I just didn't want to see that happen to you, too."

I don't know what to say. For the first time in my life, I'm speechless. Her hand is still resting softly on my cheek, gently caressing the moist skin. I close my eyes for a second and when I open them I stare directly into hers, feeling like I'm looking into her heart, her soul. And suddenly I don't care about Steve. I don't care about Laura, I don't care about anything except April and this moment. I reach my hand out and cup her chin in my palm, pulling her face towards my own until our lips meet in an almost frenzied kiss.

The moment is so wonderful, so beautiful and pure and amazing that neither of us realize that Steve is still in the apartment. We don't hear the loud clomping of footsteps or the sound of the bathroom door being pulled open. In fact, it is only when April is pulled away from me violently that I realize Steve is even here at all.

He's holding her tightly by the long tendrils of her stunningly red hair, pulling roughly and yanking her, even though she is already a safe distance away from me. I cringe at the words coming out of his mouth, at the names and phrases that I don't care to repeat. But I don't make a move to stop him until he grabs her roughly by the shoulders and smacks her, hard, against the cheek.

"Hey!"

I finally pull out of my stupor, standing swiftly (though unsteadily, due to the small amount of bad heroin still in my system) and free April from his firm grip, screaming instructions at her, telling her to get the hell out of the apartment. She looks hesitant at first, but after a second she realizes that there is nothing she can do and flees as fast as she can.

Steve is glaring at me, dark, cold rage burning in those ice blue eyes of his. The eyes that at first had seemed so warm and comforting now scream "danger", and, as if hypnotized by them, I can't seem to pull away.

After a moment or so he grabs me by the shoulders, as he had done to April a few minutes ago, and shoves me up against the wall, hard. As my body makes contact with the hard concrete tiling I give a slight "oof" as the air is forcefully knocked out of my lungs.

He's hitting me. Hard punches, coming faster now as his rage is fueled by my resistance, but I can't seem free myself from his rough, bruising, grip. Maybe it's because of the heroin still lurking in my body, or it could be just from the shock of it all… But for whatever reason, I am unable to pull away as he continues to take out his anger on my body.

And then suddenly it stops. For a moment I dare to raise my eyes to meet his again, and as I do I notice something that I hadn't before. His pupils are dilated, the white surrounding the icy blue is almost completely red… He's stoned. And drunk too, from the looks of it.

_Shit_, I think as I brace myself for the next punch, _shit, shit, shit._

But the next punch never comes. Neither does the next kick, or smack, or name call. Instead he reaches down to his belt, and I watch, feeling sicker by the second, as it falls to the floor. Along with his pants, his shirt, boxers, and the unopened pack of condoms in his pocket…


	6. No turning back

A/N: I'm sooo sorry for the lack of updates! Things have been kind of crazy in my life, and I haven't been doing a lot of writing. But I felt bad so I typed this out really quick tonight… I know it's not much, but at least it's something. At least I got the ball rolling again, right? The next chapter will be from Mark's point of view… Reviews would be appreciated. And, hey, maybe they'd persuade me to write faster? ;) j/k

Roger:

"Mark…"

"Jesus Roger, what the hell happened to you?"

"Steve…"

"Steve? Who's Steve? Roger, what is going _on?_"

I open my mouth to speak, to fill Mark in on what's been going on while I've been away, to tell him the crime that has been committed against me… But I can feel the blood rushing up from my stomach, and words escape me. My hands begin to tremble at my sides, the appendages quaking with fear and anger and horror and a million other unidentifiable emotions rushing through me.

Shit. Shit shit shit, I need smack. NOW. Oh God, oh God, how can I even _begin_ to process everything that's happened this afternoon? It's not like I've never slept with Steve before, but… But we always used protection before, and… And, oh God, I was always _willing_ before…

"Roger? ROGER!"

Lifting my head slowly, I blink at the two blurred figures of Mark standing before me.

"Yeah," I mumble, sick to my stomach.

"Roger…" His voice trails off, and I can only imagine the questions that must be flitting through his mind at present. After a deep breath he takes hold of my hands – very tenderly, I notice – and leads me to the bathroom where he washes the blood off my battered and bruised body.

But a washcloth cannot cleanse the soul. Soap cannot wash away the deed that has been done. I was…raped…and there's no going back. No turning back the clock an hour, a week, 6 months, to the time this all began. There's only the future ahead of me, and to be honest… the future scares the shit out of me.


End file.
